


Oops IV and a Half: The Conscience of a Connor

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Humor, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:52:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the slight misunderstanding in story four, Connor and Simon work out their differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oops IV and a Half: The Conscience of a Connor

## Oops IV and a Half: The Conscience of a Connor

by Blue Champagne

I didn't do it. 

This has a half designation because we briefly take a break from the stakeout stalker problem. Don't blame me. Connor drug me out of bed last night, (she WOULD do that instead of get in with me, wouldn't you know) muttering dark threats against my life if I didn't deal with this. She did the same thing to me, along with Sandburg, in story two. I tried to tell her these aren't really *story* stories, they're just dumb reel-offs, but she wouldn't listen. 

No sex. Rating for language. If you have any kind of problem with Rafe being a lousy cook (who knows it), you've been warned. More violence of the slapstick variety. 

This story is a sequel to: Oops IV: Everything Happens for a Reason

* * *

Oops IV and a Half: The Conscience of a Connor 

Jim and Simon, talking softly about the advisability of giving a certain case to one of the rookies who happened to be partnered, due to situational factors beyond anyone's control, with someone who, by common consensus, unfortunately had to be considered a moron with connections, paused in their muttered cursing of circumstance as Simon unlocked his door. They went in, and Jim bumped into Simon from behind when the latter suddenly stopped walking. He was staring at his desk. 

"Oh, no," He moaned softly. 

Jim sighed and smiled a little, shaking his head. "Another one? She picked your lock this time, looks like." 

Sighing, Simon approached the desk and sat down behind it with a tired thud. 

"What is it this time?" 

"Dunno." There was a little wrapped gift box on Simon's desk, arranged artfully with a long-stemmed rose in a small crystal budvase and a little card perched upright in front of them both. Simon sighed and picked up the card. "It says 'Since we never did find the one you lost when I knocked the shit out of you. Sorry, M. Connor.'" Simon frowned. 

"What'd you lose?" 

"My tie clip. But I probably lost it in the building evacuation." Simon ripped through the paper quickly. "If she's holding true to form, I don't even want to think what...oh, Jesus, Jim, look at this." 

Jim leaned over the desk to see into the little velvet box. He touched the gleaming object therein and whistled. "My, my. I'd say that's at least eighteen carat gold...no, more like twenty. And..." he took the box, tilting it this way and that to let the light shine through the blue stone set in the clip from different angles, zooming in sight to check the light's refraction. "And that ain't no zirconia." 

"At least tell me it's blue topaz or something." 

"Sorry, Simon. It's a sapphire." 

"Christ. Jim, what am I gonna do? I can't think of any more ways to tell her that I'm not mad at her. Not now, at least." 

"I have to admit that if you'd suddenly grabbed _me_ by an erogenous zone and tried to go down my throat tonguefirst, I'd have been inclined to punch first and ask questions later, too, so I can't really blame her either." 

"James, don't be giving me that mental picture. You're gonna turn me into a homophobe and neither of us wants that." 

"Hey. I'm hurt." Jim grinned. 

"Yeah, well, I've been just a little nervous when you talk like that ever since you patted my ass at the Fourth of July beach party, so watch what you say," Simon smirked. 

"It was the beer." 

"Uh-huh," Simon muttered, eyeing him sidelong, trying to control a smile; Jim cracked up as Simon went on "Then I guess Rafe must be drinkin' a hell of a lot of beer lately, judging by the number of new turtlenecks we've been seeing on you." 

"Okay, Simon, it was your beautiful, marvelous, world-class butt. I couldn't help myself. But it was also partly the beer. Besides, I'm a pretty big ass-patter in general when I'm in a good enough mood." 

"Yeah, Sandburg could tell anybody that." Simon rolled his eyes at the snickering Jim and started looking pensive again. "You know..." Simon shook his head ruefully. "I didn't have any problem with the balloons and cards and stuff she sent me in the hospital--when the balloons'd start to overflow the room, I'd just send Daryl to pass 'em out in the pediatrics wing--hell, I even liked the flowers, though they kept you from visiting me pretty much the whole time I was there--" 

"Simon, one rose in a budvase I can take," Jim said, lightly touching a soft, delicate petal of the example on Simon's desk. It felt nice to his touch sense, so he patted it a couple of times before desisting and saying "But your room looked like a florist's shop." 

"--but this leaving me presents and cards and stuff has got to stop. It was enough of a problem when they were things like game tickets and books she knew I'd find interesting, but..." 

"She feels bad, Simon. For God's sake, if she hadn't been stopped, and then realized you'd been affected by the gas, she might have accidentally killed you. Hell, if you'd hit the window at another angle, that alone could have broken your neck." 

"I know, believe me. I still can't take a deep breath without wincing. And my large intestine is getting just a little sick of Sandburg's chili." Simon rubbed the side of his jaw where the loose teeth were. 

"I didn't need to know that." 

"I started locking my office door, so she started leaving her little offerings in my mailbox at the station here. To the point my mail didn't fit. The mayor doesn't like getting her missives to me back with a big 'box full, return to sender' stamped on them." 

"Yeah, I think Megan's managed to replace the entire outfit you had on that day by this time," Jim commented. "I'll never know how she got the suit coat in there without wrinkling the hell out of it." 

"She's not just replacing it, she's replacing it with stuff I can't afford on _my_ salary, and I know how much they pay _you_ people. She's spending some serious _bucks_ here, Jim, I can't let this go on. It's just not appropriate. Next it'll be diamond cufflinks." 

"Simon, she's not trying to...woo you or anything. She just wants to make it up to you for what happened." 

"Jim, I was wearing a fucking stainless steel tie clip that day. Cost me twenty bucks. That thing in the box must have cost at _least_ a few hundred. And it's not _only_ the not-so-little-anymore gifts." Simon got up to pace restlessly. "She runs like a rabbit if she sees me coming; if she can't get away, she stands there looking like a ten-year-old who just hit a baseball through the window and expects to catch hell. She won't look me in the eye. Everything's all 'Yes, sir, Captain, sir, right away, Captain, of course Captain, no worries Captain.' " 

Jim shook his head. "Seems to me like you might find that a little bit of a relief from what you had to deal with before. I mean, judging by your bitching and moaning before this happened." 

"Maybe you like it. I don't." 

" _Me_? She doesn't run from _me_ , Simon. I'm not the one getting my ass kissed around here. Not by Connor, at least." 

Choosing to ignore that particular double entendre, Simon sighed and said "Jim...I got a confession to make. I liked Connor the way she was. I liked it when she gave me lip. I liked it when she argued with me. She's smart as a whip and she made me slow down and take a look at things from another angle when I needed to. I didn't like it as much when she went off half-cocked, but I was pretty used to that from dealing with _you_ , anyway." 

"Hey." 

"What am I gonna do, Jim? The only thing I can think of is ask her to request a transfer to another section, and I _don't_ want Major Crimes to lose her. She's the best damn cop we've had in this department since Sandburg showed up and helped you get your shit together." 

"I think I resent that. The part about my shit, I mean." 

Still ignoring him, Simon went to lean against the window. "But I'm running out of options, here. What would you do in my place?" 

"In your place I probably would have punched her back, assuming my lights weren't knocked out completely, and then you wouldn't be having this problem." 

"Right, right. God, I hate to think what your idea of foreplay must be like. Anyway, it's a little late for that. Why the hell do I bother asking _you_?" 

"Simon, have you tried saying all this to _her_?" 

"I told you, Jim, I can't _catch_ her! And when I can, I could call her every name in the book and she'd just nod and say 'Of course Captain, you're right, absolutely, will that be all, Captain?' Much less my trying to make nice with her. I can't get her to _listen_ to me about it." 

"Simon, look. I've...in a way I've dealt with this kind of situation before, and I think Megan is...having a reality check." 

"What kind of reality check?" 

"Well, think about it. This happened not long after she got hit with the gas and did the wild thing with Sandburg, right? And you know how all of us who ended up in bed with somebody we _really_ weren't expecting to be there with were wandering around in a creeped-out daze for quite a while after that. Joel, too. It's not pleasant when you...when you can't trust yourself. When you lose control and do things that you would never have done if something hadn't undermined your normal safeties, see what I mean?" 

"Yeah, I guess so. We talked about that." 

"Well, this was like that in a way. Megan has killed in the line of duty; she's not one of those cops who winds up quitting because they can't take the responsibility of life and death. But Simon...this is the first time she's ever assaulted a _friend_ with anything like deadly force. She has now had it rammed down her throat that under the right--or wrong--circumstances, she's got the sheer skill in her bare hands, and apparently the inherent willingness--whatever else it takes--to pound the snot out of not only the people she's paid to pound, but the _good_ guys. I think it's giving her...sort of a moral power-trip crisis." 

"Huh?" 

"Look at it this way. Theoretically, you could pull your gun and shoot my brains out right now, and there wouldn't be a thing I could do about it. But we both know that you _won't_ , we both have total, unbreakable faith in that. We have to believe that it's _impossible_ that you'd do that, or there's no way we could function in this job, see what I mean?" 

"Yeah, I think so." 

"You _have_ that power, but in order for you to be able to carry that gun around with you, you have to believe, you have to _know_ , that you would never abuse it. And up until now, Connor has had total, unbreakable faith in the fact she'd only use her fighting ability on the bad guys, not counting practice. But she's _done_ it, now, put someone in the hospital who wasn't even responsible for his actions at the time, just because she was angry. She can no longer believe it's impossible she'd hurt an innocent, and she needs to believe that about her hand-to-hand ability even more than she needs to believe it about her gun. She can take off her gun. She can't take off her body." 

"She was on some kind of mind-wrenching hormone jag!" 

"Simon, from what I understand of that treatment, which I admit isn't much, she should have been moody, bloated, headachy, snarl a lot, that kind of thing--but I'm willing to bet it's not a normal part of the reaction to that treatment to lose your temper to the point of putting a two-hundred-fifty pound cop who happens to be your boss in the hospital for five days just because he gets a little overfamiliar." 

"Uh...you're probably right. Like I said, the punch in the jaw, okay, I deserved that. And like you said, it's not the kind of situation where you ponder your options carefully. You get grabbed in a touchy spot, you react." 

"But she kicked you through a shatterproof glass wall, and I'm willing to bet that you were no longer holding her tit or trying to kiss her by the time her feet left the floor and you became the human cannonball." 

"Er, no. I was saying "Ouch," or words to that effect, and stumbling backward, holding my face with both hands, watching the little cartoon birdies twittering around my head." 

"The Megan we both know would then have said--in Australian--'Okay, what the fuck was _that_ all about?' and probably realized in very short order that something was very, very wrong, because you are not a guy to go around grabbing people like that. But she didn't. She kept coming. And I'm not talking any wimpy restraining holds or anything, either. She was using potentially lethal moves." 

"That proves my point for me. It must have been those hormones, or..." 

Jim raised his eyebrows and waited with a half-smirk. 

"A combination of the artificial hormones and the gas," Simon said softly. "It's a bad drug combo. Instead of getting happy, she got mean-crazy, is that what you're saying?" 

"Let's just say it's one hypothesis I plan to pursue." 

"Have you told _her_ this? It might calm her down." 

"I need to find out more first. Megan has a sense of responsibility exceeded only by her execrable taste in clothes; she'd probably just thank me for trying to cheer her up and go back to being scared and depressed. We need to know what that shit we're being hit with _is_ ; then we can track down whether it was responsible for Megan's, um, loss of temper. Anyway, sir...Connor scared herself. Bad. And every time she gets near you, that scare rears its head full force." 

Simon was quiet a moment. "Guess I hadn't looked at it that way." 

"And it couldn't have happened at a worse time, just shortly after she blows off a crucial stakeout in order to go get wild with a buddy on his living room floor, something _else_ she would never have believed herself capable of. Yeah, she was drugged, but..." 

"Exactly, she was drugged. Both times. You know Megan, Jim. When she's in her right mind, she's cool as a snow cone. Even pissed off, she goes cold, not hot." 

"You and I know that, Simon. And the likelihood of something like this ever happening again is infinitesimal, but you gotta admit, the likelihood of it happening in the first place was pretty damn infinitesimal, too, so that's probably not a very comforting argument for Megan. It did happen, therefore it _can_ happen, and she knows that at the gut level now. I think being around you makes her scared of her own...her own ability. Simon, if I'd stomped the shit out of you because I was on some kind of common-- even if extremely uncomfortable--medicinal drug series, and there's no way to tell whether I might have _really_ fucked you up, even killed you, if I hadn't been stopped...I'd probably be acting pretty damn strange, too. Connor likes you, too, you know. Hell, it would have been rough enough for her to deal with if she'd put some guy she _didn't_ like in the hospital just for grabbing her tit at a time when he couldn't be held responsible for his actions. But it was you. And she has a lot of respect for you." 

Simon sighed. "I know. So...you think she'll eventually just get over it? When enough time's gone by to reassure her that it was a fluke situation, I mean. Maybe with enough therapy with the department shrink?" 

"I think she's gonna need a little more help than that, sir." 

"Like what kinda help?" Simon turned and eyed him suspiciously. 

"Well, this is kind of an emotionally based thing, not a rational one, you know? So maybe a rational approach isn't what's called for to reassure her, here, make her feel...like it's really over, like she's made it up to you...and you're not following me at all, are you." 

Simon blinked. "I'm trying." 

"Shit, I'm not as good at this as...well, listen. Here's what I think might help. First you've gotta catch Connor. Lie in wait if you have to, whatever, but catch her and don't let her get away. All you'd have to do is grab her hand." 

"Jim, I may be bigger and stronger, but Megan is way too fast for me to grab _anything_ on her if I don't have the element of surprise. Which I definitely did when I went for her tit." 

"Like I said, stake her out or something. Hide behind her car down in the garage and nab her then. There's no way in hell she'd use any kind of force against you now, even just to run the fuck away, if you can just get hold of her." 

"Well I don't wanna scare the poor thing shitless, James. The opposite, in fact." 

Jim's mouth twitched at Simon's describing the Thunder From Down Under as "the poor thing", but he only said "She's ashamed and embarrassed at her own behavior, Simon, not really afraid of _you_. Hell, she trashed you once, didn't she? Being around you just brings her whole internal crisis down on her head, because it was you she did it to. Catching her is just the first part. Trust me." 

"Well, she won't disobey an order, or I wouldn't have seen a single hair of her since I got out of the hospital. I won't have to grab her; all I need to do is tell her to hold up for a minute someplace where she can't bunny away, dodging behind whatever's handy and pretending she doesn't hear me. Christ, that woman is fast. Okay, go on..." 

* * *

"Evening, Inspector." 

Megan's purse hit the floor and her feet nearly left it as she spun, drawing her weapon. 

Simon was leaning against the bank of elevators next to the one Megan had just disembarked from into the parking garage. "Ho, there, Inspector," he said, raising a hand toward her. "It's just me." 

She lowered the gun and gulped. 

"Your Captain, remember?" Simon tried again. 

"Of course, sir, terribly sorry, here, I'll just...I'll just..." she was reholstering her gun and snatching for her purse, obviously about to bolt for her car. "Really sir, I'm very sorry to have drawn on you, I should have--should have recognized your voice--" 

"Connor, it's okay," Simon drawled softly. "I was _trying_ to surprise you, so that you couldn't run off." 

Megan blinked at him in feigned lack of understanding. "Sir? 'Run off', sir?" 

"Stop it with the sirs, all right? It's giving me indigestion. I've had way too much of Sandburg's ostrich chili lately." 

"Sorry, ss--Captain." 

Simon pushed off the wall he was leaning against and walked slowly up to her--he'd still be walking slowly for a bit, since heavy breathing gave him minor chest twinges--and set a hand on her shoulder. "I'd like to have a little talk, if you don't have an appointment or anything." 

"Um, actually, Captain, I..." she trailed off as he stared her down. "No, sir, no appointments," she sighed, and gulped. 

"I'm not gonna eat you, you know." 

"Sir?" 

"Just come on." He kept his hand on her shoulder as he indicated she should re-board the elevator. 

As the doors closed, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a black velvet box. She saw it and gulped again. He held it out to her on his palm; she just looked at it a minute, then back up at him. 

He proffered it toward her again, firmly, raising his eyebrows in a "Go on," expression. 

"Not your colors?" she near-whispered, with a tremulous smile. "I can exchange it for--" 

"You're going to take it back to wherever you bought it and you're going to get your money back. I hope you kept the receipt." 

Megan's gaze fell to the elevator floor. "Yes, sir," she muttered. Her hand flashed up to snatch the box as though she were embarrassed for it to be seen, avoiding actually touching his palm with her fingertips, and stuffed the little velvet object into her coat pocket. "I didn't mean to presume...picking your lock and all, but it didn't seem a good idea to leave it in your mailbox since it was...um..." 

"...so expensive. Connor, it's a beautiful tie clip, and I thank you very much for the thought. But it doesn't matter how many nice things you give me, you know. That won't make what happened go away." 

She protested at once "No, sir, you don't understand--I only wanted to replace--" 

"I don't know how you managed to score those season tickets, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't carrying any on me that vanished into the ether when I flew through the window." 

"No, but...I just thought...it'd be nice, for you and Daryl...I had a friend who had some to sell and really it wasn't any great--" 

"It _is_ nice, Connor, but your guilt is about to drag me under for the third time. I don't even want to _think_ about what it must be doing to _you_." 

Megan was silent as the elevator rose back to the Major Crimes level. 

"And I liked the balloons and flowers, too, though Jim's head about exploded when he walked into my room," Simon murmured. 

She made a little snorting sound that might have been a laugh, but she didn't lift her head from her contemplation of the floor, so he couldn't tell for sure. 

"Didn't see _his_ face again until I got discharged." 

She said nothing. 

He sidled up and nudged her just a little with his elbow. "Loved the Snoopy card." 

She managed to look up and see that he was smiling. She smiled too, but looked away again. 

"Unfortunately Sandburg swiped the box of candy that came with it, muttering darkly about my cholesterol count, and distributed it in one of the children's wards." 

Another little snort. "That sounds like Sandy." 

"He let me keep the balloon bouquet attached to the box, at least. Everything you sent me in the hospital was nice, Megan. But what I really wanted to see was you, not your signature fifty times on as many little gifts and cards." 

She glanced up at him in confusion. "Sir?" 

"I told you about the sirs. For now, at least, it's Simon." 

Rather than call him anything at all, she just nodded. 

"Come on. My office," he said quietly as the doors opened on the Major Crimes floor. 

Megan seemed to huddle into herself as they stepped off, like a grade schooler being accompanied to the principal's office by a discipline-minded teacher. He sighed, wondering if he could really get _his_ Connor back, because he hated the fact that he terrified this one. The Connor he knew was brash but caring, entirely in command of herself, not afraid to go out on a limb in matters both professional and personal. Not even Jim's shit-flipping bothered her. She just flipped it back and went right on. And it was cute, the way she and Sandburg sometimes acted like the Demon Brainiac Twins or something, not that it wouldn't take persuasive measures that are forbidden by the Geneva Accords to make him admit that. There were a lot of levels to the Connor he knew... 

...including the one where she was majorly hot, despite the weird clothes, but never mind about that one. He wanted her in his department too much to take _that_ risk with regulations and IA. He was the Captain; he didn't have as much leeway there as his detectives. 

In any case, this Connor might be performing her duties adequately, but he couldn't help but wonder how long it would be until she couldn't take it any more and requested a transfer all on her own. He wasn't going to let that happen if there was any way to avoid it at all. 

"Come on in. Take off your coat and have a seat." 

Saying nothing, Megan put her purse on the conference table, hung her raincoat on the tree, and sat down stiffly, in almost a caricature of her usual graceful, economic movements. 

"Coffee?" Simon wondered, investigating to see if what was currently in the pot was still drinkable, or had mutated into something you'd have to spread on a cracker to get down. "This still looks good." 

"No thank you, si--Simon." 

To her obvious but quickly-covered surprise, he didn't sit behind his desk; he took the other chair in front of it, next to hers, and turned it to face her more directly. 

"What can I do for you, Simon?" Megan, apparently fascinated by the condition of her cuticles, asked. She looked more miserable than he thought he'd ever seen her, her throat moving in the occasional convulsive swallow. 

"The question's more what I can do for you." 

"How do you mean? I thought..." 

"You thought I was going to launch into some tirade about getting over it, shaping up, and above all quitting giving me things, right?" He managed to get a smile into his voice, and she looked up and managed a small, watery smile back. 

"Something like that, indeed." 

"Well, I'm not. I talked with a friend about what happened...you know, me getting fresh--about which you would realize my face is still pretty damn red if I wasn't too dark to see it on--and you putting me through the wall." 

She grimaced. "Bugger. Not Sandy, I hope." 

"No, it wasn't, but why not him? He's practically your best buddy around here." 

She sighed. "Because Sandy happens to think that I'm extremely...how did he put it...hot shit in the hand-to-hand department." She smiled again just a little. "I'm Australian, of course, but by descent I'm Irish, and he just loves to go off about how feared and respected Celtic woman warriors were, and how I'm a prime example, et cetera. Since...this happened I've wanted to knock his block off a couple of times for not shutting up about it. Anyway, he had Rafe to deal with that day, he didn't really have the attention to spare to think...how I might end up...I'm willing to bet he doesn't...understand that..." 

"That you're really scared. Of yourself, of whether you can be trusted with a job like this one." 

Her hands stopped moving against each other and she lifted her eyes to meet his. "Who did you...?" 

"It was Jim, actually. I think his time as a military commander, particularly in his area of the Army, has let him see what can happen to people, what it does to them, when...when they discover what they're capable of. When they find out what just the right combination of factors can release in them, things they never knew were a part of them. I'm willing to bet he's dealt with what you're feeling himself, and I'm willing to bet he's dealt with it through taking care of the men under his command." 

Her gaze flipped back down to her lap. "I see. So...that's why all the nice things I give you will never make me feel better about what happened. Because I've realized that I'm some kind of ruthless fighting machine that needs to be locked in one of those facilities where they 'recivilize' you before they let you out among decent people." Her voice was weak, but the bitterness was obvious. "Could've told him _that_." 

"Megan." He reached over and took both her hands in his. "It's not that bad. We've got some theories about why you might have flipped that day. In any case, Jim thinks that trying to deal with...with your larger problem is going to take a lot of time, and that we shouldn't try to fix your whole outlook right now--but he thought you really needed to...even the score, somehow. Make it up to me. And that's why all these little--well, some of them not so little--cards and presents were making their appearance. Especially since you made a point of replacing the clothes I was wearing, for instance." 

"Only seemed fair. Bloodstains are a bitch to clean. And I tore your vest--" 

"But like I said, I really don't think that's the way to go. You'll go broke, I'll have a bunch of nice stuff, and you'll still feel lower than whale shit." 

"Simon, bloody hell. You don't _kill_ a man for grabbing your tit! Or a woman either, for that matter. Loosen some teeth, Bob's your uncle, at least if he knows what he's doing, which you didn't--but you don't _kill_ him." 

"You didn't kill me. You didn't even hurt me that bad. Nothing was broken. Nothing--" 

"That's pure chance and you know it." 

"Megan, look at me." 

Her eyes came up again; she sniffed, but was quiet. 

"I deserved the punch in the jaw. I know, I know, the gas--I still think I deserved it. The flying kicks, well, we've got some theories about that. In the meantime, is there anything I can do--anything at all--to help you feel like you've made it up to me?" 

* * *

Blair looked at Simon's office door, then looked at the clock, then looked at Jim. 

"You know Brian's at the loft by now," he hinted. 

"I know." 

"Don't you want to get home and, well, get home?" 

"Christ, you have a one-track mind." 

"No, I don't. I didn't mean _that_. Besides, you're the one who keeps reaching over here for a casual grope about every five minutes." 

"I called Rafe a little while ago; I told him we might be just an hour or so later this evening. He said to take our time because he was trying a new recipe and he sure as hell didn't want anyone watching. He also warned us to call before we leave so he can tell us whether we should pick up take-out, or a sandblaster or a fire extinguisher or anything." 

"We'll teach him to cook something besides your basic meat-and-potatoes without committing any culinary felonies one of these days. Jiiiiim..." 

"Don't whine, Chief, it's unbecoming." 

"Why are we still _here_?" 

"I'm checking a theory." 

"By playing solitaire on the computer and sneaking gropes on me under the desk?" 

"So far, yes." 

"So how long do you keep up the solitaire and groping until you're satisfied concerning this theory?" 

"I told you. If I don't see results in another forty minutes, we'll go." 

Blair sighed and returned to the notes he was organizing. "If you were this excitable on your honeymoon with Carolyn, I can see why you guys broke up." 

"Oh, I'm excitable, Chief. But it's important to help out your friends, too." 

"What are they doing in there?" 

"I'm hoping they're coming to an understanding. And no, I'm not going to eavesdrop on them. This kind of thing...it might be difficult for you to understand, and it's pretty darn personal to them both, but especially Megan." 

"Hard for _me_ to understand? _I'm_ the anthropologist around here..." Blair squirmed. "And your groping me isn't making me any more patient." 

"Sorry. Blair, if the thought of Brian destroying the loft kitchen is making you just insane with desire, feel free to head out, and I'll catch up with you two later." 

"No." Blair sighed. "I'll wait with you." 

"You may be glad you did." 

_Smack_

**THUD**

**_CRASH!_**

Megan, being considerably more aerodynamic than Simon and weighing considerably less, flew a lot farther when she smashed through the shatterproof glass pane, in kind of an L-shape, butt-first; this apparently created, appropriately enough, a kind of boomerang effect and her gyrations through the air finally brought her up against the wall not far from Jim's desk. She slid down and disappeared behind some file cabinets with an oof and a thud. 

Blair leaped to his feet. "Jesus CHRIST!" 

Jim was already getting up to head for her--he and Blair were two of only a very few left in the bullpen at this hour--as Simon burst through the office door. "Megan!" 

"She's back there," squeaked one of the secretarial support staff, pointing. 

"Megan--" Simon bolted for the cabinets, falling down behind them. "Are you okay? Megan? Can you hear me?" 

Jim shouldered his way in and levered her eyelids open, one at a time. "She's out, but dilation is fine..." his hands moved gently over her body. "Ouch. Those ribs are gonna hurt." 

"Can you tell if anything's broken? Simon asked anxiously. 

Jim shook his head. "I don't think so. But it feels like you caught her in the breadbasket so we better get her turned over--" 

Just then, Megan's eyes fluttered, she groaned, rolled slowly over and puked into a trash can. 

"My God, what happened?" Blair demanded, in a total tizzy. 

"Uh...she asked me to," Simon said in as small a voice as either Jim or Blair had ever heard from him. 

"And you DID it?!" Blair expostulated. "Don't you know Megan is insane!?" 

"So that's why you love her, eh, Chief?" Jim said. 

"Well I didn't do it right _away_ ," Simon muttered in an excess of embarassment. 

"Bloody prick," Megan mumbled, then heaved up again. "Somehow I...(bllllearrrgh)....didn't really expect him to, but..." 

"Let me get your stuff, I'll take you to the hospital," Simon said, bolting back toward his office. Jim was gently steadying Megan, careful of bruised spots. 

"Oh, Jesus," Blair was fretting, running for paper towels and water to clean Megan up with. "This is _fucking_ unbelievable." 

"Jim," Megan graveled. "Your sense of touch feel anything ruptured in there?" 

"No," he said, just as softly. "I can't feel or hear anything like that. Your heart rate is going crazy, though." 

"V'just been on a carnival ride called the Crash'N'Puke," Megan explained, sitting back from the trash can. "Ugh. Glad I don't have to clean that bin out." 

"You feel better now?" Jim wondered softly, as Simon showed up again with Megan's stuff and his own. 

"No, I feel like six different grades of sheepshit," she said, standing up on shaky legs. "But I expect she'll be apples in a week or so. Don't think I need to go to hospital." 

"You're going," Simon pronounced. "Jim is good, but we're not taking any chances." 

"Hold on." Megan turned back around and went BLEAAAAGH into the trash can one more time, Jim holding her hair--he was familiar with this drill from when Blair had the flu. She hovered there a moment, then said "Right, then, that's it, I reckon. Sandy, what happened to that water?" 

While she was rinsing her mouth, Blair glared suspiciously at Jim. "Was this your idea?" 

Smiling a little, Jim shook his head. "No. I just kind of...anticipated it." 

"I can't believe I just did that," Simon moaned quietly. 

"Believe it. I've got a rubbish bin full of evidence here," Megan said, and spat water a final time. "Right, then, let's go...whoa." She stumbled, and Simon scooped her up in his arms. 

"Wouldn't do this," she protested as he strode toward the doors, though she wasn't fighting him. "Feelin' a bit crook still..." 

"I have a kid; I've been thrown up on before. Tricia, would you get the door...?" 

As the doors closed behind them, Blair, staring after them, said "He doesn't mind if she pukes on him? Sounds like true love." 

Jim chuckled. "Maybe. But more than that...I'd call it true respect." 

"Is Megan really okay?" 

"She will be. And she'll be able to look her boss in the face every day. Doesn't solve her whole problem, of course, but I think she and Simon will be okay now." 

"They have a weird way of showing affection," Blair muttered, shaking his head, mouth quirking. "I hope you're not gonna do that to me or Brian?" 

"Not really my style. Come on, Chief. Let's head home and see if Brian's burned the place down." 

"Call first," Blair reminded him. "In case we need take-out. Remember those frittatas?" 

"Oh, right. I'll use the cell in the truck." 

* * *

Megan blinked; everything was fuzzy and dark. "Where am I?" she croaked. 

"You're at my place," came a deep, adenoid-inflected voice. "They gave you some stuff at the hospital and said you didn't have to be admitted, but you shouldn't be left alone, because you're going to have a hard time moving around for a while. No internal bleeding or serious internal injuries; but a bump on the head and some serious bruising. Which, by the way, doesn't look nearly as bad on me as it does on you. You were kind of out of it while they examined you; I told 'em I was your Captain, so they let me stay, to give instructions to and like that. And you look like, I don't know, an Australian pinto pony or something." 

"Oh, _that_ comes as a shock." Megan felt around a little; she was in what seemed like a fairly large bed, wearing one of her own nightgowns--the blue flannel, judging by the ruffle--and she could see the shimmer-lights of moonlight reflecting on water, cast in undulations across the ceiling. "Oh, yeah...that must be the little ceramic pool in your back--huhhng!" She hadn't made it even two centimeters off the pillow. "Bloody hell." 

"No, don't try to sit up--it was two days before I could sit up by myself and get into a wheelchair; 'til then I needed help to do it." 

"So help. I need to pee." 

She felt a very slight shifting in the firm mattress, and then the water-reflected light from the window was blocked as a large, dark shape moved close on her left side. 

"Captain, did you just get out of the other side of this bed?" 

"Full metal jacket PJ's on both of us, Megan. I had Rhonda bring some of your things and get you changed. Don't worry. Your tits will remain unmolested." 

"They're the least of my worries at the moment." 

"I know what you mean. Anyway, when they said not alone, they meant not alone. Emergency strikes in the middle of the night, hell, you can't even sit _up_ by yourself. This was just the easiest way for me to keep right nearby in case you needed help; bed's big enough that my moving shouldn't jostle you much. Okay, try not to contract your torso muscles at _all_ ; just let me lift you up." 

"No worries." She let him raise her to a seated position, then swing her legs over the side of the bed. "Bugger. They give me any pain pills?" 

"Yeah, and some muscle relaxants, same as they gave me. Up we go." He walked her slowly to the bathroom. "You gonna need help in here?" 

"I've been doing this quite a few years now, Captain. Just stay close." She shut the door behind her. 

There were a couple of thuds. "I can't find the buggerin' damn toilet." 

"Try turning the light on." 

"No; my eyes ache, along with the rest of my head. Ah, there you are...whew, that's better." 

"We aim to please," Simon chuckled. 

"Just be glad I didn't give up on finding it and piss in the sink." The toilet flushed. Megan did not reappear. 

"Megan? Are you all right in there?" 

"Only way to get off the toilet was, uh, roll. I've got my knickers on again, but, well...apparently I've fallen and I can't get up." 

"Need help?" 

"No, I want to sleep on the bathroom floor. _Yes_ I need help." 

Simon opened the unlocked door--carefully so as not to bang it against her head in the dark if she was too near it--found her and gathered her up in his arms carefully, standing up with her. His chest twinged, but he ignored it. 

"Simon, have you considered adopting a Cabbage Patch Kid? Perhaps a pup? I don't think you're taking Daryl's recent majority all that smoothly." 

"Oh, shut up. You don't weigh anything to someone my size, and carrying you's faster than walking you around like some kind of stiff-legged golem." He took her back to bed and asked "Hungry? I can get Madame a snack to go with her narcotics." 

"I may never eat again...oh, some milk or something, since I'm taking those pills." 

He'd left her sitting, propped on pillows; she was able to take the glass of milk and the pills herself. "Thanks, Simon." 

Simon got back in on the other side, careful not to bounce the mattress. "Ready to catch a few more z's?" 

"Will be in a moment; these pills always knock me out." She breathed in and out slowly, trying to relax and wait for the medicine to take effect. Lord, so soon after that damn hormone series... 

"Joel said you called me something right after you dropped me on the floor...what was it...'Grouse bloke?'" 

She laughed a little, then said "Shit." 

"I know. Laughing will hurt for a few. So what's it mean?" 

She grinned. "It means you're a handsome man, Simon, and you knew that, I'm willing to bet." 

"I just like to have these things verified," Simon grinned. "What if I wanted to call you the equivalent?" 

"'Grouse sheila.'" 

"Hm. Well, goodnight, Sheila." 

"G'night, Simon." 

* * *

End Oops IV and a Half: The Conscience of a Connor by Blue Champagne: bluecham@mindspring.com

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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